Cankles and Hobbit Feet

My socks shrunk a couple of months ago. The weird thing was, it was all of my socks. At the end of the day, a distinct imprint of elastic was tatooed around my ankle. I considered buying new socks until....

my shoes shrunk. I noticed this first on a flight to California. I had taken off my tennis shoes on the plane, and when the seatbacks and tray tables were ordered to be in their upright positions, I reached for my shoes...and couldn't get them on. I stuffed my sausage feet in them as best I could, did not tie the laces (what was the point? They certainly weren't going anywhere), and limped off of the plane nearly in tears.

I faced the fact that it wasn't my socks and shoes that were shrinking. I was growing. Oh, alright, swelling. My feet and ankles have gotten so puffy that I'm down to two pair of slip-on shoes that fit just barely. My loosest socks, which don't hug my ankles at all, leave imprints of their embroidered flowers into my doughy tree trunks.

Today, my OB asked the dreaded question. "Are you wearing support hose?" I made a face like I had just eaten one of the molded strawberries that we found in the bottom of our fridge today. "I was afraid you'd ask that," I said, and proceeded to tell her that well, I suppose I could go to Wallgreens today, walk to the aisle with the Depends and commodes, and buy some. She laughed sympathetically. And then told me to do it.

It's a good thing Michael drove, because I may not have done it myself. We went to CVS. They didn't have any. I had to ask a 20-something pharmacy tech as to which aisle the support hose was in, and the embarrassment was all for not. Nice. Stop 2: Wallgreens. Just as I suspected, it was at the end of the aisle containing adult diapers. Michael pointed to the top of the shelf, referencing a walker: "do you need one of those, too, as long as we're here?"

I was hoping that Michael had some things he needed to pick up, too, so that the sole purchase was not support hose. Maybe other toiletries and various sundries would drown out the humbling merchandise. Michael grabbed a bag of M&Ms. This was not enough. The woman behind the counter, wearing layers of blue eyeshadow, whose feathered hair was helmeted in place by too much hairspray, proceeded to comment on the need for the purchase. She was nice about it, don't get me wrong, but I don't need to be hearing about my extra fluid from anyone else, much less from Lorraine.

I am in bed as I type this, the very location where my OB suggested I wear my $30 fashion statement. And even though Michael mentioned something about white leggings being hot after a pouty whimper from his wife ("are you still going to be attracted to me after I wear armor to bed?"), the only compressing these stockings are doing is on itself, inside the packaging, lying on the receipt in the plastic Wallgreens bag.